The Love Knot (35 page)

Oliver that Catrin had paid his ransom to this snake with her body.

'If you have touched her, I will kill you!' he snarled and shot to his feet, his fists already clenched to strike.

In one nimble move, Louis sprang off the table and put it between them.

'And if you lay a finger on me, you will hang from these battlements until the crows have picked you clean!' His glance flashed to the other guards who had started forward, swords hissing from their sheaths. He waved them back to their posts with a terse gesture.

'Sit down,' he commanded Oliver. 'This avails us nothing, and there is much you do not know.'

With great reluctance and hostility, Oliver subsided on to the bench, but the battle light remained in his eyes and his heartbeat was a heavy drum in his throat.

Louis remained on his feet. He rubbed his palm across his chin and drew out the moment as he gathered his thoughts. At last, when he was ready, he struck without mercy. 'I have every right to "lay a finger" or whatever else I desire upon Catrin, because she is my wife,' he said.

'Your what?' Oliver almost gagged.

'Wedded, bedded and sanctioned by the church full six years ago. I have known my Catrin since we were children building mud castles together in the bailey at Chepstow.'

'Her husband is dead.' The words emerged from Oliver's mouth but he was scarcely aware of speaking them. 'My Catrin'? Christ Jesu, it was not to be borne.

'So she assumed until today, but she knows the truth now.' He gave a secretive smile as if at some pleasant memory. 'Of course, I do not blame her for abandoning her "widowhood", but she should have been more patient. I would have returned for her.'

'You were the one who "abandoned" her.' Oliver's voice was clotted with loathing. If there had been a sword at his hip, he would have used it.

'Every man makes mistakes in his life,' Louis answered with a shrug, as if the matter was trivial. He examined a fingernail and then clicked it on his thumb. 'I admit that

I am no saint, but she accepts that, just as she accepts the reason I had to flee Chepstow and play dead. Of course,' he added, giving Oliver a direct look in which there was complete self-assurance, 'if she wants to go with you, I will not prevent her, but I believe that you will find she prefers to keep her marriage vows.'

'You think so?' Oliver's voice was thick with revulsion. 'She didn't come here to find you but to ransom me. The past is dead.'

Louis shrugged. 'Believe what you will, but you are deluding yourself. I did not have to force her to lie with me just now. She was more than willing, and not because she was playing the martyr to pay your ransom. She still cleaves to me. You do not even have to take my word for it. You can ask her yourself before you leave.' Pushing to his feet, Louis sauntered to the door.

For a nauseous moment, Oliver thought that he was going to usher Catrin into the room and parade the situation before all the other hostages. But Louis spoke to the guard, there was a clinking sound and he returned with Oliver's pilgrim swordbelt and weapons.

'Your shield and hauberk are in the guard room and your horse is in the stables,' Louis said as he pushed the other items across the trestle. 'Take them and be far from here before dusk closes the gates.'

Oliver fingered his swordbelt and looked at the familiar pewter badges. It seemed to be the only recognisable item in a world gone awry. Very slowly, because all the power seemed to have drained from his body, he stood up and buckled on the belt. He had a powerful desire to draw his sword and slice off de Grosmont's handsome, smug head, but it remained sheathed. He could see that Louis was prepared and, perhaps even hoping, for just such a move so that he could lay claim to a justified kill of his own.

'Two more things,' Louis said, his voice pleasant, his expression marred by a twist of smug malice. 'There is a manservant of yours waiting in the bailey, a hulking oaf. Take him with you when you leave. My wife has no further need of his services. You will find her in the chapel. I do not expect your farewells to take longer than a few minutes.' He opened his hand. 'You are free to go.'

It was a lie, Oliver thought, staring into the obsidian-dark eyes with their challenge and mockery. Louis de Grosmont had just taken all hope of freedom from him and cast him into a deep, dark well of despair.

'God help you if we ever meet again on the field of battle,' he said through clenched teeth.

Louis smiled. 'Oh, he will,' he said smugly. 'God always helps those who help themselves.'

Catrin had tried prayer, but either she was not listening or the saints were not answering, for she had gained little comfort from the hour spent on her knees. Staring at the candles had made her vision blur, and now she viewed everything through a fuzzy, golden haze.

She was being torn in two. Lewis, Louis as he called himself now, or Oliver. She loved them both; Louis with the heartsick burning of her youth, Oliver with the quieter steadiness of maturity.

Whatever his excuses, Louis had once betrayed her badly, but when he said he had changed his expression had been so sincere and chagrined that she doubted her own judgement. His lovemaking still sent her soaring and he was, after all, her husband. She could not be wed to Oliver while her commitment to another man still stood; could not love him with a whole heart knowing that Louis was alive. Oliver deserved better than that. Besides, if he did regain his lands, any children that she bore to him would not be legitimate issue and their inheritance would be open to question.

How she was going to face him and say all this, she did not know. The prospect was so harrowing that she was tempted to hide until he was gone, but he deserved better than that too.

'Mary mother, Holy mother, help me to say the right words,' she entreated the statue of the Virgin before the altar. 'Help me to bear this.'

The mother of Christ gazed down on her with a face set in serene repose, the infant Jesus cradled in her arms. Catrin's mind remained blank.

A draught fluttered the candles on the altar and swayed the flame in the sanctuary lamp. Behind her, she heard the soft scrape of a leather sole on stone and the clink of a sword chap against mail. Slowly she turned, her belly a vast cavern, and watched Oliver come towards her.

He was wearing his hauberk, flecks of rust dulling the rivets. His shield hung on his back and his sword was girded at his hip. In the darkness of the chapel, his hair gleamed like ripe barley and his grey eyes were almost black. The look in them rooted her to the spot. He looked her up and down and she was conscious of the soil stains on her skirt from the storeshed floor.

'Did he force you,' he asked flatly, 'or was it of your own free will?'

Catrin gazed at him helplessly, with no inkling of how to reply. 'I . . . what did he say?'

'It doesn't matter what he said.' Oliver gestured impatiently. 'All I want to know is, did he force you?'

Heat stained Catrin's cheeks and she lowered her eyes. She felt smirched and ashamed. 'He did not rape me.' She twisted her hands together in the folds of her gown. 'It was he who made the first approach, but I ... I was not unwilling.'

The look he gave her was like a blow and she crossed her hands on her breasts as if to shield herself. 'He is my husband,' she said raggedly.

'Who abandoned you in order to save his own hide. Christ, Catrin, can't you see him for what he is?' He took a step towards her, his armour jinking. 'He's about as faithful as a whore's oath.'

'He has changed, I know he has.' She hated herself for how weak the defence sounded.

'Although your view was from flat on your back,' he said with contempt.

Catrin gasped and recoiled as if he had struck her. 'I do not blame you your pain,' she said shakily. 'But I am suffering too. Before you condemn, think how it would be if your Emma were suddenly to walk back into the room and tell you that her death was all a mistake; that you could have her back in your arms. What would you do? Whom would you choose,

Solomon, in your wisdom? Your wife, or your promised wife?' Her voice rose and cracked.

He stared at her, and then his shoulders slumped and he shook his head mutely.

It almost broke her to see the defeat engulf him. 'While Louis lives, I am his wife. It doesn't mean I love you less.' She took a step towards him, her hand outstretched in entreaty. For a moment she thought that he was going to strike her aside or just turn and walk out. Both intentions flickered across his face, but then vanished to leave a look of pure anguish. He crossed the final three yards of space between them and dragged her into his arms.

Crushed in his mailed grip, Catrin wept, and felt through her hands the shuddering of his own body in grief. He took her face in his hands and kissed her mouth, and she tasted their mingled tear-salt.

The priest, returning from his errand to fetch fresh candles for the chapel, made a shocked sound in his throat.

Oliver and Catrin slowly parted. 'If you have need of me, seek me out.' He used his gambeson sleeve to wipe his eyes. 'If not. . .' He swallowed hard. 'If not, then let me be. However many sons you bear him, however great your fortune, I wish you well, but I do not want to know.'

She watched him walk out of the chapel, and stayed where she was until the sound of his footsteps faded away. Then she genuflected to the altar and went in search of a small, dark corner in which to curl up and weep.

The Christmas feast of 1141 was celebrated on a grand scale by King Stephen's court at Canterbury. If no outright victory had been gained, at least the status quo had been re-established. Stephen and Robert of Gloucester had been exchanged for each other and both sides had drawn back from conflict to lick their wounds and regroup.

Louis and Catrin were given a place of honour at one of the high tables, below the salt of the magnates but on an equal ranking with the lesser barons. As the man who had captured Robert of Gloucester, Louis was in high favour, and he pushed that advantage for all it was worth. With style, with subtlety, with cunning. The wolf was running down the deer.

Catrin watched him set his snares with trepidation and pride. She was uncomfortable at the way he had reinvented her past with a mingling of half-truths and omissions. He told the curious that she had believed him dead and, as a skilled herb-wife, she had sought refuge and employment in Bristol, where her services had been invaluable in tending the King. Hearing a rumour that her husband might still be alive, she had braved the open road to find him. She was courageous, loyal, beautiful and wise. What man would not be blessed with such a wife by his side?

Catrin had not denied the tale, there was no point, but it worried her that the story flowed so plausibly off his tongue. Despite his promise that he had changed, he still used lies and manipulation to gain his ends.

She shied away from the thought that he had lied to her too, for it carried all manner of implications, not least about her own judgement. During the day, she could ignore the small, nagging voice that told her she should have stayed with Oliver and made her life with him, his wife in all but name. But in the darkest hours of the night she was vulnerable, and the voice would wake her from sleep, accusing her of skipping on quicksand instead of choosing firm ground.

She was full of guilt and grief over Oliver. She could not just act as if the year and a half during which she had come to know and love him had never been. But there was no one to whom she could talk about him. The women of the court already had their own friendships. Knowing the gossip of the bower, she would not have trusted them anyway, for all that they crowded around her and asked her advice for this ailment and that. She had never thought she would miss Edon's feather-brained companionship, but she did, terribly.

'Brooding again, Catty?' Louis leaned round to look at her. There was an evergreen chaplet set slightly askew on his thick black hair, making him look even more like a faun from the wild wood. He clutched a mead cup in his right hand but, although his breath smelt of the drink, he was only a little merry. He had been mingling with the guests seated at other tables, telling jests, laughing at jests told, making himself popular. She had even watched him juggle five leather balls before the King with expert sleight of hand. It had earned him applause from the royal table and the gift of a fine, silver brooch.

She shook her head and forced a smile. 'Reflecting,' she said.